My Dear, those aren’t wolverines
It was the start of the Summer Wolverine hunt last Frursday, but of course I was in no mood for the carnage. Only one week earlier I had learned of the death of my cousin, R. R. R. Holmes, by that damned Hoppem’s Fever Flu. I do hope by my end the medical sciences will have stayed it’s gaze. It was to late for Richard Richard Rodney Holmes, however, and another specter joined the ranks of Heaven’s flutey choir of gayness. His passing was all the more bittersweet in happening just before the hunt. Oh how he loved to taunt the wolverines. Holmes and his “wicked chuck wand” which he would playfully use to lash about the eyes of the creatures! It was the type of fun only an infant would seem capable of.
In his formative years he had been a blue eyed genius of invention. Creations would come to him in flashes: the bicycle, the septocycle, the double bicycle, the non-flying single bicycle. Legal disputes would rob him of his most popular creations: the fork. While safety concerns would prevent the creation of others: the child mangling robot. These ideas would never define him. Nor would anything define him. Penniless from the lawyers, he spent the last 17 years of his life in my shed. I asked him to leave on many occasions, but, as was his want, he would urinate on my porch and steal my pumpkins. After a good while I thought it somewhat less than likely that he would ever harm me.
As I hear the wolverines purr I am brought back to this present. A bleaker existence in his absence, with all those horrible forks and bicycles causing such a rabble. I would like to think of him, not as a crazed, urinating man with a stick. Perhaps sitting next to Da Vinci and Edison and looking down on us. The three great minds, devising some sort of lighted, flying, wolverine-blinding transportation that only the future can understand. I will sleep little until that great dawn rises.
November 12th, 2008 at 3:09 pm
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